DEAR DIARY,
These are things that happened to me, cross my heart and hope to die.
That’s the way I used to start all my diary entries. Juvenile, isn’t it? Some of those entries are so rambling and nonsensical it’s hard to believe I was really like that. One thing that was interesting to see was the progression from printed letters in pencil to flowery script with hearts over the “i’s” in pink ink.
I found this old thing when I was cleaning out Frank’s office. I forgot I had a drawer in one of the file cabinets that contained some of my old things. Fortunately they were under lock and key, or my poor husband would have gotten an eyeful.
My last entry was when I was sixteen and in lust with my chemistry teacher, Mr. Boner. That was his name, I swear. He was so hot he burned brighter than the Bunsen burner flames in the lab. Late twenties, built like a gymnast, shiny, straight blond hair, pale blue eyes. I used to love to watch him move. I volunteered to be a lab assistant just to spend a little time after school with him, helping set up for the next day. I had him all to myself for a wonderful week, then that dweeb Maurice Serbin volunteered, too. Having Maurice around was like a dozen wet blankets. I could tell Mr. Boner was attracted to me. He was just too professional to do anything about it, and I loved him all the more for that.
Entries from that time are scorching, hot enough to singe the pages. I had a boyfriend at the time, who of course didn’t know he was number two in my heart. Men are so dumb that way.
Then I just drifted away from writing in my diary. I’m surprised that I didn’t throw it out, because by that time June was old enough to steal it. If she’d known about this little pink book with the tiny lock, she wouldn’t have rested until she’d gotten her hands on it. That’s the way she was. Nosy and obnoxious. If April hadn’t died, she would have whipped little June’s ass and made her not pry into things that weren’t her business. Ha! That would have been something to see. Instead, I had to deal with the whining twerp. That’s what June still is today, a whining twerp.
I just might keep writing in this diary. I can say anything about anybody, and not worry about whether it’ll get me ahead or not. It’s such a liberating thing to do, just saying things for their own sakes. Fuck. Cunt. Rim job. Motherfucker. Pussy fart. Look at me, I can use words that are frowned upon by polite society. I wonder what other society women scream out when they have an orgasm. “Thank you oh so much,” or “Join me for tea next Tuesday?” What hypocrites. Whatever else I am, I’m never that.